The son of Fire, who had just before lighted his brand, and flung its destructive sparks about among the poor players, attacked the Laureate [William Whitehead] in almost every one of those hasty productions with which he glutted the town, bringing in his name in season and out of season, with an acrimony much too harsh to admit of an union with wit, and sufficiently virulent to have been distilled into verse, from the very dregs of that prose, of which the caput mortuum is to be found in the codes of polemical divinity of the last century. But peace be to Churchill's "Ghost."